


Footholds

by duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr/pseuds/duckduckorangejuicerobertdowneyjr
Summary: Truly, it was a mortifying situation. Such things had never held him for long.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Footholds

The loud metallic clank nearly made him jump a foot high, and startled the performers rehearsing below. The fools glanced around nervously on stage, but mostly, their stares drifted to box five. The phantom ducked back to avoid the revealing light, and cringed at the rattle of metal and stinging pain. He looked down.

Truly, there was nothing more humiliating. That was a lie, he had been in more humiliating situations under the mocking eyes of the shah or the jeering faces beyond bars, but those were topics he’d rather not think of, thank you, and were near wholly unrelated to the situation at hand.

That being said, his ankle was being crushed by the metal jaws of some sort of animal trap, and the moment he became free, the managers, along with cast and crew, would suffer for this transgression.

He should have detected it! Oh, he had been trained by circumstance to have the eyes and intuition of a cat. How was he to suspect, though, that the folks who were terrified before to even approach his box were now laying boobytraps within it?

Confound them. Damn them all.

After careful and quick inspection, he discovered that the device had been painted black, and that thankfully, its biting metal was not toothed. Still, the spring's tightness was unusually powerful, leading him to believe it had been tampered with. A thick metal chain, also crudely painted, attached the trap to the leg of a chair within the box.

With a scoff, the Phantom lifted the chair and pulled the chain free. Perhaps the stupidity of his staff was good for one thing. But oh, when he released his foot, he would show no mercy. The gall of them! The nerve!

From there it was not difficult to tell how the trap worked. All it would take would be to push down the metal on either side of it, and he could pull his foot free. He crouched low, thankful that the sounds of rehearsal had started again, and pressed the heels of his hands against steel. The metal squealed in defiance, and the Phantom stopped to listen. The sound of poorly played piano continued unfettered below. He pressed down again, and the metal relented, then jammed before it could loosen. Thoroughly frustrated, the phantom realized the metal’s paint was not only to hide it in shadow, but also to hide what felt like rust along the joint.

Stupendous. If the trap dug deep enough into flesh to draw blood, he would surely contract lockjaw. Now how did the imbecile who placed this contraption set it in the first place?

He could simply escape to his lair. The chain was unwound. Alas, the more he thought about it, the more he questioned the stealth of what was essentially a metal boot on one foot. He could do it, but at what cost? He would surely be heard or spotted, or the free chain would catch, and trip him.

What if his enemies were waiting outside the box? What if they heard it go off, and were now drawing their weapons? No, he waited silently, and still heard nothing. No one would dare go near his box, anyway, and no one would dare expect their ridiculous trap to succeed.

He had escaped traps far more inescapable, he had escaped death more times than that, and he was not about to allow some rust-eaten design meant for simple beasts to be what meant capture in his own opera house.

Balancing his free foot upon one end of the release, and awkwardly placing both hands on the other, the phantom pitted his full body weight against the mechanism. The jaws jolted a small amount, creaking. The phantom gave a small jumping push and felt the metal begin to give way-

Box five's door was pushed open, and the startled phantom instinctively pulled his hat over his face, and cloak over his form. In doing so, he belatedly realized two things: for one, the trick that allowed him to disappear when a stagehand came round was ineffective when his background was not darkness, but the fairly lit house, and two, suddenly releasing the half-opened trap caused it to snap shut on his ankle once more, now seemingly tighter than before.

He grit his teeth against the pain and growing panic, then reached for his lasso, until his mind caught up with his eyes, and he recognized Madame Giry slowly closing the door behind her. Truly, what was once a minor humiliating situation had now become dreadfully humiliating.

He sneered, raising himself to full height to loom over her. She had the mind to look afraid, at the very least. He took a threatening step towards her, but his caught foot clanked and twisted with the movement, shooting dull pain seemingly through the bone.

He hissed, even stumbled, _stumbled_ , and the Madame’s hand went from reaching to reopen the door and flee to reaching out in concern. Dear God, he didn’t know which was worse. Realizing the situation, the Phantom sighed. Heavily.

“Madame.”

“Monsieur… Opera Ghost?” Her sudden composure was almost impressive, if not for the fact that he doubted she could make out any of his features in the darkened box. And that he had _stumbled_ , for God's sake.

“Madame Giry, you are aware that I explicitly instructed you never to enter my private box during rehearsals or performances?” She placed both hands upon her cane now.

“The dancers heard sounds from this box, and were of the belief that a stagehand was attempting to scare them. I concurred. I am here to investigate, not to intrude.”

“You have sufficiently investigated, Madame. You are free to leave now, and to respectfully not mention this meeting.” He had not dared to move since his misstep. Madame Giry- _the cursed Madame Giry_ \- had noticed.

“...Is there something wrong with your foot?”

“That is none of your concern,” he snapped.

She looked at him incredulously, taking a cautious step forward. The phantom instantly fled to the side of the suddenly cramped box, pressing himself against the wall to be further in shadow. Unfortunately, what should have been a silent maneuver caused the chain to jingle when it dragged against the floor. He was beginning to lose feeling in his foot, he noted.

The Madame paused. She was staring at his boot now, and after a moment he followed her disapproving gaze. He had moved his foot right into a sliver of light's glare, no doubt illuminating the infernal contraption plainly for her to see. He yanked his leg back, away from visibility, but the damage had been done.

“The fools… the absolute fools!” The phantom had never had the misfortune of hearing Madame Giry's anger up close. He then registered what she had said.

“You know the perpetrators?” he hissed.

“We received a shipment of pelts for costuming. The seller included old traps as ‘prop donations', free of charge,” she shook her head. “They were likely just trying to get rid of the rusted things.”

“The prop masters, then.”

“That would be my best guess, Monsieur. They were told to throw them away.”

He could vaguely recall now the corresponding minor argument backstage. They were hardly rare enough to all be remembered. How could he have forgotten the fools joking about leaving traps around the building? He hadn't thought them serious.

“Then I shall have to pay them a visit. Speaking of, and although this meeting has been informative, I do believe you should be going now. When you return to your charges, please ensure to inform Mademoiselle Aveline that she is not properly keeping time.”

Her face changed from creeping pity to stone neutrality once more. “Yes. Very well. Would you care to escort me out?”

Her clipped tone stirred his anger, and he considered using the Punjab anyway, just to threaten her. It would likely have an opposite effect if he tried. Any attempt to move toward her would be an embarrassing hobble. He could still do it anyway. What did he care what she thought of him? He lifted his numb foot and shook it, allowing the metal to rattle. Let that be his rhetorical answer to her rhetorical question.

“Would you care for any assistance with that, Monsieur?”

“You have pried into my privacy enough. Go back to your ballet rats.”

“I’ve seen the traps first hand, they are difficult to open.” Was she now insulting his strength?

“I would hardly call your teaching methods productive, but they will be more helpful than whatever your pathetic attempts to open the foothold shall be. Go do something useful, for once!”

He could feel her fury burning into the side of him that was slightly visible now to her sight, and with it he could almost guess what her cane would feel like smacking against him in a fit of rage. She would never get close enough to do so, though. The only impact came from her slamming box five's door shut behind her. He suppressed a flinch, waiting patiently for the sound of her hasty footsteps to vanish, then leaned down again so he could return to unlocking the trap, imagining Madame Giry speaking with little Meg as he pulled at the metal. All the small bits and pieces of overheard conversation over the years.

_He’s lucky he’s a genius… he’s lucky he knows more about performance than the directors!_

If Madame Giry ever doubted his genius, his knowledge, would she too want him caught? Would she want him gone like the others do? Want him dead, even?

_How can that man go from the perfect gentleman one moment to insufferable the next?_

How can the ballet mistress go from respectful one moment to infuriated?

He pinched his fingers between the metal twice before finally managing to push down hard enough. He yanked his foot out the moment the jaws had loosened. Absent his ankle and his death grip on the release bars, the trap closed shut with a resounding clank.

He let out the breath he was holding and limped to the closest chair, collapsing into it and carefully rolling up the leg of his pants. The skin around the impact was indented, crushed to bruising, but not bloodied. He would most likely limp for a day or so, that was all. His pants leg would not need repairs, at least. As feeling returned, so came pins and needles, and he rested back against the chair, focusing his attention on the rehearsals he had barely missed.

A wrong note there, a wrong step there, and he had seen enough. He stood up on an unsteady leg, leaning against the wall, seeking support until the sensation had passed.

Damn them. Damn them all.

Perhaps when he sees Christine for lessons tonight, his mood will clear. Just the presence of the young soprano tends to do so. For now though, he lifts the steel trap from the floor and exits his box for the prop rooms.

Perhaps if his rampage against them is vicious enough, the old manager might finally make good on his promise to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it crack? Is it crack that I wrote? I wrote crack?
> 
> Maybe. It's bugged me in the past that people think ALW Madame Giry and Erik get along when Giry won't dare go near his lair and the Phantom insists he was never shown compassion.


End file.
